I Write, Because….

I write to not scratch the Mission Bay sand flea bites that populate my feet, ankles, knees, front thighs, waist, neck, arms and hands. I write to avoid watching TV. And lazing my night away. I write because I picked my one ripe tomato, walked three miles, ate my allotment of 1450 calories, flossed and brushed my teeth for two minutes while doing hip extensions, knee lifts and eight pound dumb bell curls on both sides. I write because no one has called since I returned from San Diego and I don’t feel like calling anyone who will ask me to unpack my trip to New Mexico for the writing conference or the other meeting that I managed in California, that I’ve been planning for the last nine months, that participants agreed it went really really well even though speakers showed up late, the event planner specified a later date for handouts to arrive and we spent nearly an entire night at Kinkos replacing name tags, table tent cards, a 4x6’ graphic, room signs, table assignments, then the package showed up anyway a few minutes before the meeting.

I write because I tried quilting but once I figured out the design and chose the fabric in colors that made me salivate, I found the sewing boring. I completed the quilt-top comprised entirely of tee-shirts worn by my son from every track meet in his high school career, including the one with a signature that commemorates that he broke the school and his coaches’ pole vault record, and another where my heart stopped when he landed in exactly the same fashion his Buddy Bear did when he’d fling him from the top of the stairs or across a room… scraping, bouncing and finally stopping with a sound of wind knocked from his chest and torso slamming the mat. Eventually, I paid a quilter with a special long arm sewing machine that requires an investment and commitment to quilting to complete the quilt in time for a graduation and never quilt again.

I write because my garden, consisting of three large pots, requires too little care. Once I dreamt of sheep for sheering, spinning and knitting and rows of veggies for freezing, canning and sharing. I chose instead to move to the city and am relatively content to offer a daily spritz, a nip here and there to blunt the growth of overly ambitious herbs, and if I am lucky a pluck now and again of ripened tomatoes and lettuces for a salad or two.

I tried knitting but tracking the quantity of knit ones, purl twos, yarn overs and slipstitches produced nothing more than a tangle of yarns so I tore it out and gave away the yarn. Then tried again using a rainbow yarn and needles the size of Wisconsin brats with ten knits in one direction and ten purls back then an extra row of knits, repeating this pattern for ninety minutes when the apparent scarf reached around my neck from knee to knee. A few days later, on the way from Chicago to Ann Arbor wearing an ankle-length steel grey skirt and matching grey top, I draped the vibrant ribbon around me as a multi-colored stole and wore it into a favorite shop situated at the bottom of Lake Michigan in the Indiana Dunes.  Before, I thoroughly scoped the shop, the proprietress admirably decked out in pumpkin, black and a completely surprising green sheath, asked if I would make six more. I agreed at sixty dollars each, called two friends who each had 180 minutes to spare. I bought their supplies, cheered them on as I completed my two and delivered all within a week under the name of Scarving Artists. We donated the money to a women’s shelter and I never knitted again, leaving my needles and left-over yarn to rot in a covered bin in a third bedroom, I call my studio.

I write because there are two containers of bead supplies and equipment in that studio too. For thirty years I’ve made earrings, bracelets, and necklaces for family members and friends as gifts and sometimes for myself. I’ve spent hours creating designs that use colors, shapes and textures that “go” but never ever “matchy-matchy” as my friend Lynn calls store bought bangles. Jewelry making was once an addiction. I was powerless to pass a store without going in and lacked will power to sift through beads without buying. About fifteen years ago, I inadvertently underwent a self-inflicted aversion therapy that cured my compulsion.  I call this miracle remedy, the Teen Years. Nights my son left the house with my car, I worked on a project that seemed sane at the time and kept me up till he’d safely arrive home. I’d admired something similar on the fireplace mantle of my 76-year old Scarving Artist-friend. She created a cuff of pink rosettes that fit tight where the label would go on a wine-bottle shaped clear glass decanter using the tiniest of seed beads and the slimmest of needles.  I chose a smaller bottle, the same shape and adopted a seed bead pattern, also of pink rosettes, to circle the bottle. Making the pattern circular rather than end-to-end was the first challenge. My second challenge - the needle pricks from figuring out how to hold the bottle and manage the weaving method, and keeping dark red blood from messing up the pattern. The third challenge that remains today is the unexpurgated boredom from the repetition of motion. Oh how I wish I could experience it as meditation or Thich Nat Hanh’s mindfulness. But, no, no matter if the TV, radio or a podcast is on, ten minutes passes and I consider stabbing myself deeper with the needle but that would be like suicide by mosquito bite.  I began the bottle when Alex turned sixteen, the first two of four inches emerged by the time he went to college at eighteen. Since then, I’ve added another half inch and now only need to add the bottom of a row of flowers and the edging, about the time he turns thirty-five, I expect, because in the meantime, I write.